


just a little change (small, to say the least)

by Whitmanesque



Category: Phantom Thread (2017)
Genre: Alma is trans, Alma's extreme discomfort with, I'd defenestrate them, Multi, Reynolds is clearly neurodivergent, aka what if we made divine suits in the house of woodcock, also they're both bi, and explored that, and my second grievance, and the makeup!, anyways they're both prickly pears but are quite dear to each other, esp. certain parts, if someone did the knife scratching thing in my kitchen, le body, my god and that juxt. with the world of fashion, my vehement rage upon first viewing, no it's okay I'll get the oscar myself, this fic explores that, when a superb film has the potential to be extraordinary but opportunities are missed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-01-23 03:20:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18541231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitmanesque/pseuds/Whitmanesque
Summary: Alma Woodcock was a perfectly wonderful name. Until one day, it wasn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Under the seams runs the pain." --Anne Carson, Autobiography Of Red

 

Spring, 1960

 

The dress was plum-coloured.

That’s how she remembered it. Plum wine. The pigment that smudged young women’s teeth at dinner. Mixed with their bright red lipstick. Oil slick. Grape-skin stain. Messy, greasy, nauseating.

The dress itself wasn’t nauseating. Reynolds seldom made anything that was hideous. The bottom was a slip silk with lavender tulle covering it. The bodice was embroidered with silver flowers and fit snugly around the waist. A little like a renaissance dress, but with a modern a-line twist for the skirt’s length.

There was nothing wrong with the dress. It was her.

“Whenever you’re ready. We’ll make adjustments as needed,” he had said a half hour ago. She loved his quiet voice. The hushed, stilted lisp of his accent. She had wanted to kiss him since he first ordered breakfast.

They were only complicated on the outside. Inside, it was really simple; he was beautiful. That was all.

And I … she thought, muffling a sob into her sleeve. I suppose he sees what he needs to in me.

She sat at the bottom of the closet. Under a sweep of dresses she hid her body as one might under the branches of low, weeping trees.

The spray of their skirts splayed out above her head. She felt suffocated by the insulatory nature of wool and gingham and damask. Long, thin asymmetrical wraps and edwardian ball gowns sheathed her in her own shame.

In the darkness she bowed her head, trying to hide from something that had no shape to hide from.

He mustn't see you weak, she thought, had thought many a nights. He’s the one that gets to be delicate, all bolts of gauzy fabric unraveling. You--you are made of different stuff. Remember that.

_“Alma?”_

The word fell naively, barely hinted at concern wrapped around it. At most, fond annoyance. A shirr in a bolt of fine lace that could easily be tweaked with the right needle.  

“Alma, didn’t I say a half hour? It’s the Spring collection, you know how bitchy they get.”

 _Putain d'enfer._ She bit her knuckle, hoping it was hard enough to draw blood. Silencing the doorknob with her hand she counted his footsteps. She knew him. She knew how long it would take for his presence to fade. For him to look elsewhere in the house. To ask Cyril if she’s seen her and then return to work, pretending he didn’t need her.

The blood trickled from her hand. She pressed it into her shirt, careful not to get anything on the dresses. They would remain unmarred by her misery. Not a single tear would blemish the creations he loved so. Loved more than her. More than anything, really.

She knew that. She knew him.

A fresh bout of tears spilled into her hands soft as pearls.

Yes, she knew him well. Much better than he knew his husband.

 

 


	2. The Blue Velvet Kimono

        Winter, 1961 

It’s easy to hide. Pretending helps.

She went through the motions, solemn as a mourner. Got ready for the Spring collection. The Summer. The Fall. The Winter. And then, almost another year had passed.

But he noticed. His keenness, of course, extended to more than just the clothes. Tensely terse glances of sorrow weren’t nearly concealed as she thought. Without realizing it, she was losing her composure. The pride she took in being a securely locked room had finally failed.

His footsteps lingered.

He’ll leave, she thought, not even worrying. She bit down harder on her hand. The bruise marks had scarred there. He asked about them. Each time she insisted they were from a slipped needle, a sewing scissor with a rough edge. A series of accidents when she was tired. Mistakes by her own hand. Her fault, always her fault. He never argued, but his eyes were disappointed. That was the worst of it all. His black moods and dreary bouts were nothing she couldn’t handle. The bolts of fabric torn in tantrums and weeping soliloquies about failure rarely emitted anything but sympathy.

But his disappointment cut  her straight to the bone. The final pattern that couldn’t be ripped out and resewed. It left no room for mercy.

The door closed. She made no move to get up. She would be down in another twenty minutes, wash her face, and say she was busy. And so it went.

What she didn’t expect was the closet door abruptly swinging up. The sight made her cringe.

The slight man stood in front of her. His gray hair hadn’t aged him a day. She could picture him younger, all fair-haired and glasses too big for his sharp features. She thought he was probably exceedingly handsome then and didn’t know it. She was only sorry they hadn’t known each other sooner. Perhaps, things would have not been this way.

He knelt down beside her. “Alma, are …  you hurt?”

She didn’t say anything.

For a moment his anger flared up, masking worry. “Crying like a child, in the upstairs closet no less … should I be the one feeding you mushrooms?”

Turning her head, she felt as though she’d been slapped across the cheek. _This wasn’t fair._ The words had run out, leaving a dry wooden stump of spool where she needed thread the most.

He knelt, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Are you ill,” he asked, voice wavering unsteadily. “Or dying, dear god--you don’t get to die first, that’s absurd! Especially after we agreed that--”

She shook her head again, crying harder. No, she wanted to reassure him, I’m not going anywhere.

She tried to open her mouth again, but all she managed to do was clamp her jaw tighter.

He brushed her lip with his thumb. A gesture from several years back. A silent question, a way of asking to be let in without speaking.

Once, she managed to nod. This was all he needed to proceed, trying to change what he guessed at.

“Do you hate me, my dear?” He tried to sound indifferent. “I mean, if that’s all, I certainly wouldn’t keep you here against your wishes. I’d never want …” But the sentence wasn’t finished. At the crack in his voice she grabbed his wrists, a clumsy display of affection that conveyed equal parts desperation and reassurance.

“No. It’s not you,” she smiled a little, a fragile, tentative thing that twisted on her lips as their eyes met. She didn’t want him to worry. She loved him too much. “You know I’d tell you if it was you. I wouldn’t hiding like  _un_ _écolier stupide_.”

His wiry finger wiped a tear away. “ _à peine. Qu'est-ce que tout cela signifie?”_

She thought of French, Italian, even old Latin. Some feelings she learned then, couldn’t be translatable, no matter how much one knew.

She motioned vaguely above her head.

Above her, Reynold’s eyes followed the dress she had pointed to; a blue velvet kimono lined with fine opals and precious gemstones that had taken over five hundred and eighty-eight hours to sew by hand.

He gasped. “It’s _the dresses_ \--you don’t like my dresses?”

A laugh broke through her, painful as it was sweet.

He was so dear, crouched beside her, all knitted eyebrows and frenzied glances between the garments. It was almost enough to make her sigh in relief.

“Yes, that’s exactly why I spend all my time designing them with you. Non, it’s me. It’s wait ...” She gave his hand a small, affectionate squeeze. 

She gave a little ‘shoo’ motion with her hands and a firm nod. “ ... Give me ten minutes, oui?”

“Oui.”

 

***

The suit jacket took only a few minutes to put on. The rest of the time was spent tying her hair in a way that concealed the bun, making it look as though that was the natural length. She did her cuffs over once, twice, then stepped out.   

She tried not to fidget. Her posture was practiced by now, but her chest fluttered as though she was suddenly pushed out a window.

On the bed, the dainty man studied her.

He doesn’t look completely horrified, she thought, not daring to move. Startled maybe, though that was quickly covered by feigned composure and … No, she shook her head. The rapid succession of emotions must have been a trick; sorrow, understanding, and a brief hint of desire.

Slowly, he got up and walked to her. He said nothing. His gaze was neutral.

Fear stilled the room to the head of a pin.

Then, he smiled. A smile that was apologetic and tender all at once. 

“Well, looks like we'll have to work on your tie knots, chéri.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't count ...chapter three is pronoun change and ... some fancy new clothes!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Comments/Kudos are always appreciated. Chapter 2 we're in for a "pronoun change" with a seventy-five percent chance of "concerned, but loving fashion designer." @victorian-twink


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